The Curse of Immortality
by BananaManiaBubblegum
Summary: Harry Potter became the master of Death when he gathered the three Deathly Hallows. Thus, he became immortal. Decades, centuries, millennia pass in front of his eyes… And through all these years, he can't help but notice the constants…
1. Disaster and Shock

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Hetalia.**

**Personal prompt/summary: Harry Potter became the master of Death when he gathered the three Deathly Hallows. Thus, he became immortal. Decades, centuries, millennia pass in front of his eyes… And through all these years, he can't help but notice the constants…**

_A/N:_ This is a revised version, with the ending scenes expanded and edited because I didn't like how they turned out. I had left the old version in case you wanted to compare, but I took it down because a considerate, if a bit short-sighted, _Guest reviewer_ pointed out that it was the same thing. Therefore, enjoy the new ending scene I added!

**Beware of heartbreak.**

* * *

The rain trickled down the small musky window and fogged up the inside, creating the illusion of an even smaller room. The stink of death permeated the air as the door slammed shut and cheers sounded from the other side. A rat scuttled closer to the pile of bodies in one corner of the claustrophobic place curiously. It sniffed the rotting flesh and was about to test it with a paw when the pile shifted and a groan escaped from underneath all that weight. The animal scurried away as a hand shot out from beneath the barrage and helped a man crawl out. Like most of the bodies in the pile, the man's skin was rotting; he had multiple open wounds and at some places even bones were sticking out precariously. His hair was partly torn out, his clothes were scarce, and he was missing an eye.

When the man crawled out and as far away from the stink of death as possible, he propped himself up against the wall with another groan. Soon, most curiously so, his wounds began to heal. The missing tufts or raven black hair grew back, the broken bones shifted back in their original position and mended, the empty eye socket filled up and the iris cleared to reveal shocking green, the skin patched itself up, leaving no scars but one.

Harry Potter drew a deep sigh as his eyes refocused on the opposite wall. The tapestry was peeling off to reveal blackened bricks on most places, and small holes in others. The rest of it was covered in splatters of blood and sometimes even a stray piece of a finger or intestine was hanging off the rougher patches. The bile rose in Harry's throat but he managed to suppress it with a disgusted gulp.

Minutes passed and nothing moved besides the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling with each breath. Every bit of air stung his nose with the harshness of rotting flesh but it was only much later that he moved. Looking every bit as healthy and energetic as ever, Harry stood up. He couldn't help but finally glance back towards the pile of bodies that he recently vacated. His stomach turned uncomfortably at the sight but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the familiar shock of flaming red hair. He had watched the whole thing play out as part of his own torture, and even now he could still feel the helplessness he had felt then. But then was different. Then he was held in magic-binding handcuffs chained to the wall, the same ones that now hung uselessly right next to the pile of rotting corpses.

His magic, as familiar yet as foreign as his lightning bolt scar, burst to life faster, stronger, angrier than even fire and through parched lips he rasped, "Wand."

Almost instantly a long grey stick materialized in his hand and with another rasp the door was blasted off its hinges. Confused shouts sounded down the hallway, then the beating of feet on wood as the men came to investigate. With a flourish, a silky material covered Harry and he disappeared completely from sight. He was gone down the other end of the corridor by the time the men, rogue Death Eaters, came. He needed food and water and sleep to replenish his energy and power, but had the time for no such luxury. He was searching for the final piece of his life, of his team, of his duo of best friends.

He found her.

Instead of buried under rotting corpses, she was chained to the wall, much like Harry himself had been. A crown of thorns were put mockingly on her head, _the Gryffindor Princess_. A big chunk of her face was missing and so were any scraps of clothing that may have survived the torture had she been a man. Whip wounds criss-crossed over her stomach and thighs, a diabolical play of blue and red. Her legs twisted at odd angles and a stain of dried blood was right underneath them. One of her eyes was shut closed, red tear streaks dripping right under it, the other was missing a lid and the empty brown stared almost accusingly at Harry. He couldn't help it. He hurled, right there next to the door.

In the end he was left wheezing as the emptiness in his stomach was filled with no other than absolute wrath. Raw power danced at the tip of his fingers as the thought filled his mind. _Burn. __**Rage.**__ Blaze. __**Hate. **__ Devour__**. DESTROY.**_

He was the sole living person to stand among the cinders of the wretched place. He breathed in the smoke and the ashes mixed with his tears as he screamed to the skies. Why him, of all people, why? It wasn't fair; the war was over, so why had those wicked men done this to him? Why were they even alive? Why was he the one to survive while his best friends died? Thunder answered his every cry with a roar of its own but no other answer ever came.

* * *

It was over.

The house was cleansed of the rotting flesh and the rotten souls plaguing it. Harry did not cheer; he mourned.

An hour later, as the rain poured down and Harry stared listlessly at the broken body of his best friend, left untouched by the flames but the stains on her honest innocence never fading, a car pulled up next to the wreckage of a house and a blonde man stepped out of it with a solemn frown and a big umbrella above his head. His own piercing green eyes, seen far more than what even Harry has ever seen, zeroed in on the lonesome figure among the ruins. He walked towards the mourning man wordlessly and stood to the side of him. His impressive eyebrows scrunched in disgust at what humans do to each other as he stared at the sullied woman. He offered no words, just tipped the umbrella so that it protected them both from the rain, and moved no more for the next few hours, he himself lost in memories long forgotten, deeply buried, heart-wrenching, similarly to the dark-haired man next to him.

At long last, Harry stood up slowly with a last deep sigh. For the first time since the blonde-haired man arrived, his presence was noticed and the scarred hero jumped slightly, wand at the ready.

But the other man hardly blinked and stared at the champion with a serene calmness that also calmed Harry in turn, and he felt himself trusting the other man even though he had never before met him in his entire life. Finally, Harry relaxed. He felt drained, physically, emotionally, and mentally, and the last thing he saw before he blacked out was the concerned pair of green gems, reflecting depth even Dumbledore's hadn't possessed.

The next day Harry woke up in the man's mansion. He learned his name, Arthur Kirkland, and after a long talk that unloaded lots of baggage from Harry's shoulders, they parted with the mysterious words, "We'll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on, Mr. Potter."

* * *

For five years Harry mourned the death of his beloved. Five years he refused to see the light of day, and no one was left to try and convince him otherwise. But he was lonely. It took a lot of him, but in the end, he finally reentered society. However, it seemed Arthur Kirkland's promise was an empty one since even forty years later, Harry had seen nor hair nor hide of the strange man. He himself was still as youthful as ever, the same curse of the Deathly Hallows that revived him in that torture chamber forbidding him to grow a day older ever since. He supposed there was no point in waiting futilely for a person he'd never see again.

But then again, fate always loved to surprise Harry Potter.

Somewhere over the course of those forty years, Harry was thrust into the world of politics. By the end of those forty years, he was holding what he insisted was only a temporary job as the Minister of Magic. As the most prominent figure in wizard society, Harry was expected to get along well with the muggle Prime Minister, as well as other important people in muggle Britain. As it stood now, he had a meeting with who the Prime Minister insisted he meet for that person was far more important than either minister. When Harry had inquired, the muggle had smiled mysteriously and had said no more.

When the man who conquered was informed that the meeting would be in the palace, he assumed the important person would be the Queen. He dressed smartly in muggle fashion for the afternoon tea he was invited to and apparated straight into the castle grounds. The guards startled, but as they were notified of his presence, he was led to the tea room the Queen was sat in.

Harry bowed formally, speaking the much rehearsed words of greeting – that he was honored to be meeting such an important person, that he felt humbled to make her acquaintance, that he hoped that he would do his best at his temporary position for her sake. She curtsied to him and spoke the same, but she shook her head at his invitation to start the tea, saying that they were waiting for another party, a far more important party. Harry was confused, who could be far more important than the Queen herself?

When the familiar blond mop of hair appeared at the doorway, that serene smile upon his face, Harry stood up in shock. The very same Arthur Kirkland who had consoled him forty-five years ago was the very important person he was to meet? The blond-haired man looked no older than he did then as well, and the man who conquered found himself absently contemplating the existence of another artifact of artifacts with the same effect as the Hallows.

The Queen stood, and formally introduced the two men. Arthur beamed at Harry and, with the familiarity of an old friend, ruffled his raven hair, but not before hugging the Queen with a murmured 'Bettie!'. The muggle Prime Minister wasn't spared the familiarity either, receiving a friendly pat on the back from the blond.

Harry was astounded: what did this person do that put him on a scale higher than the Queen herself?

Alas, he never got an answer to his question as it never came up in the following conversations, despite him trying to shift them in the desired direction. It was like they were all avoiding the topic like the plague. But, he asked himself upon getting home late that evening, full of exhaustion and questions, was it worth it trying to uncover the veil of mystery shrouding Arthur Kirkland?

No, he supposed. Harry got the strange feeling that veil was there for a reason, just like the one in the Department of Mysteries. And he knew what happened when anybody messed with that Veil. Dark thoughts started swirling around Harry's head at the reminder of his godfather's death and he knew he needed a drink. He didn't spend that night sober, and the following day all thoughts about Arthur Kirkland were far from his mind.

* * *

Ten years later Harry had successfully resigned the position as minister and he went back to spending his days lounging about his home, searching for something to do. He had more than enough money to last him a few lifetimes by now, but he'd eventually have to start working again. That, however, wouldn't be for a very long time. He got into the habit of going out and watching people shuffle past him, busy with their own short lives. He observed their worries, their pains, and in due time, resolved to do his best to make their fleeting existences better.

With a bitter smirk of the irony, he then delved into all books available to him, working out the kinks in magic and renewing the concepts which had remained unchanged from times of old despite muggle technology advancing nearly to the point where it could explain the phenomenon of magic and how it worked.

Harry rarely went out during that period of his life but sometimes it happened for him to get some tea at the local tea shop for a change of scenery and he'd spot a flash of distinct blonde hair from the corner of his eye though by the time he turned his head it was gone as fast as it appeared. Those fleeting glimpses were the thing that kept him going, the knowledge he wasn't the only constant in the ever-changing world around him.

Magic was soon flourishing and Harry decided he'd done enough for now. Instead, at the invitation of the Headmistress of Hogwarts, a middle-aged witch who'd barely been born when Harry battled Voldemort, he packed and went off to Hogwarts to reacquaintance himself with the wonders of school life. Life as a teacher was fulfilling and he found himself eager to greet every child under his supervision. Unfortunately, he knew he couldn't hang around for long. His teaching career ended as soon as he sent out the class he'd debuted with, a curiously international class amongst which was a young kid with familiar blonde hair and sharp green eyes he was sure was Arthur Kirkland's son, despite the different names and having gotten no confirmation or denial in the seven years he'd taught the boy. Harry privately admitted that even with his own decades of experience, young Mr. James Bastian was a very elusive little bastard indeed.

* * *

The next half a century found Harry living and working in the muggle work, acquainting himself with physics and mechanics, very intriguing subjects as far as Harry was concerned, and becoming a car mechanic. He'd even gone and gotten himself a girlfriend or two for that period, the memory of Hermione still weighing him down but not as heavily anymore. He was happy to see he actually changed, becoming leaner, more muscular in contrast to the way he was when he was burying himself in books. He made a point to go out more often since then, getting back in the habit of tending to a garden in his free time, and at some rare occasions, going to the club for the opportunity to show off his new 'me'.

He didn't have much recollection of those particular times, but he remembered flashes of gold, the smell of lust, and the sound of music grinding into his very core and making his magic pulse to the beat. He remembered the taste of tea and sea and rain and the passing wonder how a single human being could taste like that, and he remembered the feel of smooth pale skin under his fingertips. He also remembered the splitting headaches the following mornings and the agony of having to brew himself a pepper-up potion before he could start to function properly.

In the span of those fifty years, Harry moved perhaps five or six times so he wouldn't be discovered. Once he'd even tried moving to France for more freedom of expression, but he quickly moved back, homesickness and a lack of inner understanding of the language stopping him from lingering too much there.

It was at those peaceful times he made a mistake.

* * *

He fell in love all over again, with a woman a few years older than his physical age. She was accepting, and kind, and so, so beautiful Harry couldn't help it. He told her about magic, and in due time she found out about his immortality, and both times she hugged him as if he was a child, as if he was the one who needed comfort instead of her.

The two lived together for many years. They lived that life to the fullest. They travelled the world and saw new cultures, and learned new languages. Harry desperately sought a solution to his pains all over the world, but none was forthcoming.

The woman watched him sadly every time he let his frustrations at that fact burst and stormed into bar fights like a great big cloud of doom.

He watched her sadly with every white hair that streaked through her hair and every wrinkle that appeared on her face with age, wishing he could do the same and eventually die with her.

The time came when he stood by her bedside as she waned, hot tears making their way down his face uncontrollably. It was then that she smiled lovingly at him and placed an old, wrinkled hand on his cheek. He nuzzled into it desperately, placing his own hand on top of hers and holding it there, squeezing it to reassure himself she was still there.

"Thank you, Harry, my dear young Harry." She said, tears spilling from her own eyes as she closed them for the last time, the smile remaining constant on her face. Harry let out a wrangled sob, hurling himself in her slack embrace and begging whatever deities were listening to bring back the only beacon of happiness in his bleak everlasting life.

None were forthcoming.

* * *

The funeral was small as the woman had outlived most of her friends and family due the effect of Harry's magic, though that effect had obviously not lasted long, and not nearly long enough for Harry. The boy stayed behind at the grave even after everyone had gone home, the bright blue sky and shining sun mocking him silently from above.

"Human life is fleeting that way," a new voice sounded from behind him. Harry didn't look up from the tombstone of his lost love, saying nothing.

"But no child of mine is dead as long as they're kept where it matters most," the new arrival continued, taking a few easy steps and crouching in front of the tombstone next to Harry. He spoke with the wisdom of someone who has lived through many, many losses.

"In the heart," the soft melodic voice ended and the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Conquered, the One Who Couldn't Die, felt his dried up tears start pouring again, and he flung himself in the comforting embrace of the blonde man despite not having seen him in literally centuries. He had no idea who or what Arthur Kirkland really was, but right now he didn't even care. He'd take whatever constant he could find, whatever lifeline he could grab on to so he wouldn't be dragged roughly behind life as it went on without him.

Harry passed out under the calming hum of a song he knew but couldn't place and woke up, for the second time in 235 years, in the vaguely familiar mansion of one Arthur Kirkland.

"What _are_ you?" was the first thing Harry mumbled to the man. And so The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland told him.

* * *

_**War**_. Yet another war tore England apart, forcing Arthur to reacquaintance himself with the battlefield once again. The world was bathed in blood of enemy and kin alike, the battles dragging in not only soldiers - experienced, doomed younglings compared to Arthur or even Harry – but families. Everyone was involved, and there was no way out.

The scenes each night were gruesome, aftermaths shining bloody in the starlight as once fertile lands were soaked red. Despite having seen the scene thousands of times, bile still threatened to rise in Arthur's throat every time he glanced at it.

In the dark lonely nights when the weight of the day had settled in the camps and nothing but piercing silence veiled the world, and when Arthur convulsed with searing pain of loss by the thousands, it was Harry who held him, much like Arthur had done before, who stroked his dirty blond locks and muttered nothings that both knew were lies but neither paid that particular fact attention.

It was then, at those vulnerable times when the two boys, for they were no more than boys seen far too much, wept: for lives long lost, for each other, for the curse of immortality.

But most of all, they wept to remind themselves of their own humanity, faded with time.

* * *

In the end it happened. Harry knew it was bound to happen, they both did. There were uprisings, revolts, declarations and manifestations all over the islands, after all. All the other nations had seen the chance, and were all pushing for the bragging rights for claiming the isle of soon-to-be-once Britain as well. All the stress was building on Arthur's shoulders, and it was making Harry stand on edge as well. It was for naught, though, as the wizard couldn't actually do anything despite his magical prowess. He had been out of the public eye for too long, he didn't have the authority he once held. His name was reverred as much as Merlin's, the great old warlock, and just the same, they were both believed long dead. And suppose people believed him, even: what could he do then? No one would listen to authority, that was the whole reason the whole mess started, after all.

It had all snowballed down a steep slope with a long chain of events ranging from military cuts to political debates and now there was an avalanche threatening to take them all down. Worst of all, though, was the simple, terrifying fact of the matter.

Arthur was fading.

He wasn't getting sick, per se, as there weren't many actual casualties. Politics had just taken a sharp turn and not for the better. He was just gradually starting to simply disappear as more and more lands broke away from the Queen's power, losing his strength day by day.

It was obvious when the last days were upon them, for Arthur was frantic. Ghost-like and very nearly actually passing through objects, Arthur had pretended everything was alright and had dragged Harry practically all over the country. Harry had kept silent, but he, too, knew all too well what it was about. He'd had months to get used to the idea, though. It hurt, oh, by the gods, did it _hurt_, but the wizard had rifled though every possible book on magic he could find, had talked to any witch or wizard who could have had secret knowledge on the matter passed down paren to child, anything, but it was for naught. Again.

All that time, Arthur had simply watched from the sidelines impassively, coldly, already accepting his demise, and had calmly, perhaps a bit sadly, comforted the man when he broke down crying at the end, when it came to light that nothing was going to change.

"Y-You've been my only friend for _millenia,_" Harry had sobbed quietly, childishly, even, despite his years.

"I know," was the soft answer, but Arthur could say no more on the matter. He was going to disappear, simple as that. Mayhaps someone else would take his place, a new nation, or perhaps someone exsisting would claim the lands he would leave behind, but Arthur himself was going to be no more.

And so at the end of the last day, when they returned to Kent after the final waking trip Arthur would ever take, Harry watched with a heavy heart as the whisps of vapor once known as England disappeared with the setting sun.

Harry was alone once again.

Dull green eyes took in the green paradise that were the hills outside the mansion in Kent, and with a billow of the wizard's cloak, the door slammed close all on it's own after its new owner, mayhaps never to open again.

* * *

**Boys, stop being such drama queens.**

**So, thank you for reading, and I'd love it if you dropped me a review - what you liked, what you didn't, anything at all! Thank you again!**


	2. Tender Loving Care

**Basically an elaborative segment explaining the beginning through Arthur's eyes, and expanding the whole 'talk that unloaded loads of baggage off of Harry's shoulders' thing since I never liked that wording anyway. It's shorter than the original and it just came around cause it struck my fancy to try something sad again. **

_Also yes, dear Anon, this is really truly different from the first chapter._

**That said, beware of heartbreak.**

* * *

Arthur was attuned to the emotions of all his citizens. He knew their feelings at any given moment, but for the most part had learned to ignore it in order to give his people their privacy. It was only when truly powerful emotions surged in a big part of him, his land and people, that he felt a jolt of the emotion passing down his spine and electrifying the tips of his fingers. It didn't happen often. Mostly when on the battlefield the fear and the bloodlust would jumble his brain and he would tear into his enemy with ferocious abandon to work off the shock, and often at protests he would feel the indignation of the masses and storm the Parliament to tear the ones responsible for the anger of the people a new one.

But nowadays things were calm. The magical war was over, the after-parties too, and hard work on the reconstruction of the wizarding world had begun. No bloodsheds, no reason for protests yet. Even his normal citizens were enjoying a serene war-free life, with the politicians kicked into high gear to prevent reason for uprisings. So far so good.

Then one typical rainy afternoon it happened. Heartbreaking anguish shocked his brain so fast and so suddenly that he threw his head back and nearly spilt his tea on his shirt. Thankfully, he was alone so no one would bear witness even if he had, but that was the least of his concern at the moment. Instantly, many possible reasons for the feeling flashed through his mind. Revolt? No. War? He'd have known long before that. A national tragedy?

He turned on the TV quickly and surfed the news channels, looking for any breaking news. None.

Therefore, he did the only thing left he could do: he relaxed back into his chair and delved into himself, into the feeling. He inspected it carefully from every possible angle and when he found the thin trail leading back to the geographical source, he quickly traced it and pinned the location of the feeling to an old abandoned house. Now, what would anyone be doing there?

Despite the pouring rain, Arthur grabbed an umbrella and his car keys and he was out the door.

He only understood the situation when he saw the blazing ruins of the old house already being extinguished by the storm and the figure crouched in the middle of the apocalyptic grounds, clutching a lifeless body and crying uncontrollably. Ah, yes, old magic did tend to favour the Masters of Death.

With a quick scan of the surroundings and a jog of his memory of recent wizarding events, he quickly pieced together what happened. Vindictive satisfaction passed through his gut at the knowledge of what had happened to the perpetrators – presumably some neo-Death Eaters with the element of surprise.

Arthur got out of the car and approached the two fallen kindred spirits. He tipped the umbrella so that it sheltered them from the rain. He didn't mind getting himself soaked; it was a small sacrifice to let the grieving grieve in peace.

Watching the mangled body of the girl, memories of wars and battles long gone resurfaced like a skeleton straight out of Davy Jones' locker and bit at his conscious with the power of a hungry shark.

He didn't know how long he stood there, like that, but he came to when the man under the umbrella stirred and, finally noticing Arthur, startled into a wary stance. Arthur himself didn't move a muscle. He had long learned how to deal with PTSD soldiers and the boy in front of him was nothing short of one.

No movements until the initial alertness is gone. No sudden movements at all. Don't speak sharply or loudly. Let the man calm himself first before offering support.

He watched the raven-haired youth with a serene calmness, envisioning in front of him to be standing an easing field of roses instead of the very concerning ragged man. It worked for the most part, and his serenity bled into the wizard eventually, making him pass out in Arthur's arms.

With a solemn silence, he picked up the man and laid him in the back seat of the car. Then, he scavenged the ruins of the house and, finding nothing but the burned beyond recognition bodies of the attackers and the mangled, but untouched by the flames bodies of all the victims, made a phone call to the Auror office.

Before leaving the site, he made sure to kneel and bow his head in respect in front of each of the victims. They deserved at least that much, if posthumously. That those children who had suffered so much during their life had had it ended in such a cruel way formed a lump in his throat and a sob tore its way to the top. It's been thousands of years and every time, every single damn time it felt as gut-wrenching as the last.

The Aurors came. Arthur slid on his stony mask and directed the men what to do with the bodies: the neo-Death Eaters in a mass grave to rot, and the victims to be buried in a way that would do their sacrifice justice.

He then took the famous Harry Potter home to his mansion. Silently, he cleaned and redressed the man before putting him in bed to sleep off his magical and emotional exhaustion. Some might more poetically say he was exhausted spiritually as well.

Then, once again, Arthur was left alone with his thoughts, and only then did he allow himself to mourn.

The dawn of a new day came and went. Harry Potter slept and slept, and Arthur didn't blame him – he needed all the rest he could get, after all. When the boy who lived (and lived, and lived again) woke up, the first thing he did was stare up at the ceiling, eyes heavy with disorientation. The next thing he did was turn to the side and hurl what little contents his stomach had.

Arthur, who had been sitting by his bedside at that time, grimaced and vanished the mess. Harry, just barely taking note of that fact, looked up into mirroring green eyes blearily, hollowly. They stared at each other, and stared. And stared. Finally, it was Arthur who averted his eyes and stood up fluidly, clearing his throat and offering Harry to get up and have a cup of tea with the nation in the living room. Dazed, the wizarding savior followed his directions and soon they were sitting on the comfortable chairs in front of the blazing hearth while yesterday's storm continued ravaging the world outside. Arthur was slumped backwards on the armchair while Harry was curled vulnerably on the sofa, cups of tea in hand.

"Who are you?"

"Arthur Kirkland, Harry Potter."

Said Harry Potter chuckled bitterly, "T'was the scar, wasn't it," he murmured. He had nothing to speak loud and clear for. Both of them were staring into the fire instead at one another, leaving its crackle to battle against the storm and fill the air between them.

"Afraid not, m'boy," Arthur sighed and sipped his tea, "it was the eyes that gave it away." He tapped the cheek right under his eye shortly, knowing he now had the listlessly questioning gaze of the other upon himself.

"My mother's eyes," Harry quoted every other person in his life. He should have felt torn apart; he felt numb. But Arthur only shook his head.

"The eyes of someone seen far too much, far too soon."

Harry curled around the warmth of the cup of tea, taking a sip. It felt like the blazing fire had come again, only this time raging its way through his insides instead.

"They're gone," he confirmed disbelievingly, his voice cracking. Saying it out loud suddenly made it all the more real, all the more anguishing, and Harry felt the numbness fade away to reveal the gaping hole beneath. Empty.

"They are," Arthur echoed sadly, quietly. It was the simple truth.

"I couldn't protect them," the man who couldn't die trembled like a leaf, curling childishly into the warmth of his tea. The words were hollow, as if stating a fact.

Arthur pursed his lips and set his cup on the coffee table. If there was one thing he wouldn't stand for, it was blaming oneself needlessly. But he couldn't snap a sharp answer, not in this situation. Instead, he got up and sat next to Harry on the sofa, taking his cup and placing it also on the table before enveloping the man in a hug.

"You did your best," he murmured firmly, and averted his eyes as Harry broke apart in his arms.

Outside, the rain poured on.

* * *

**Psh, that turned out a lot more clichéd and dramatic than I intended. Silly geese, those two. Anyway, please review and tell me if you liked it! :)**


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